Jack can't remember being this hard in his life. He hurries down a flight of stairs, unwilling to be seen, and unwilling to come in Avery's good trousers.
He feels that there's a very real danger of this.
The air is cold and Jack is thankful, and more thankful that Annabelle is still out dancing with Cora. She won't be back for hours, and Jack needs each minute.
He has to wank.
He has to, there's no question, it's absolutely necessary that Jack get off immediately. If only Avery hadn't kissed him--but hadn't he kissed Avery first? Yes, he had. Then why was this Avery's fault?
Why, his eyes, of course.
Odd that just one look could make Jack so achingly hard, so painfully hard that he wanted to rub himself against a wall until all of the pressure went away. And then do it again. And again. And again.
So innocent. Oh god he was so innocent and he didn't know what he did to Jack, what Jack was about to do, and he was so innocent that Jack knew, could imagine how tight Avery would be around him.
Fuck.
He doesn't know how he manages it, but Jack runs, tripping over himself to get back to the small cabin so that he can get his trousers down and cock out. Avery's trousers. He wishes it could be Avery's cock.
Avery. Jack all but falls into his room and slamlocks the door behind him, collapsing against the back of it as his hands go to his flies. It's hard to undo these nice trousers, and Jack wonders if it's so only rich people can undress other rich people. Probably, given the elitism of the people he'd just met.
Well, Jack knows how to undress Avery now.
There's a small dot of precome darkening the inside of Avery's trousers when Jack finally gets them off, but he can deal with that later because right now he has to push back his foreskin and spread the precome that hasn't stopped over the head of his cock. Bed.
Bed, and Jack pulls off his shirt to lay down on it, hissing slightly when a coarse blanket comes into contact with his balls. All that he can feel or pays attention to feeling is his hand, his fingers, his dampened palm when he touches himself again.
This won't take long.
It can't possibly, not with Jack's hand moving so fast that the friction almost burns, almost hurts from how hard he is and how dry his hand is still. The pleasure overwhelms that, though, overwhelms everything but the image of Avery still fresh in Jack's mind, and the image of Avery he's making up now.
In Jack's mind, Avery is naked. Gone are the solemn clothes of earlier that evening, although Avery still wears the strip of bow tie around his neck. Jack wills it off, and Avery loosens it, blushing. Jack can imagine Avery's body, and his cock twitches when he does. Pale, of course. Like his hands, so delicate and sure and certain to be heaven on Jack's cock. Hair in Avery's eyes, yes, Jack likes that. He'll have to tangle Avery's hair someday, run his fingers through it until it's just as mussed as he imagines it now, in his eyes and soft and just lighter than the hair lower on Avery's body. Lower on Avery's body...Jack moans and his strokes slow, all of his attention on the Avery in his head who is currently wanking too.
Watching Avery wank is much more erotic than just touching himself, and when Jack's hand tightens around himself, Avery mimics the move--and only then does Jack moan. In his head Avery's head is tilted back and his eyes are closed and Jack comes and Avery doesn't stop he doesn't stop and Jack gasps his release but Avery isn't stopping, and Jack's hard again in minutes,
He sucks on two fingers and spreads his legs, moving the fingers down to fuck himself until Avery comes too.